Ébauche d'humain
by diopann
Summary: Ein knows Gaelio never feels like a sketch of a human being, not finalized, never completed. Sometimes he wonders if Gaelio also knows that Ein is just a sketch. - Late sixties, Paris.
1. donner corps à votre essence

Gaelio stumbles on the large carpet his mother had cleaned just last week—some men were over—spilling the entirety of his champagne glass on one of the red splotches on pristine white. The artist who made the carpet, his mother informed him when he was seven or eight, had committed suicide shortly after the completion of the carpet itself. Gaelio had spent the afternoon looking at the splashes of red on white in the dim light that came in through the window overlooking Rue du Bac, imagining the deep red of blood staining the floors of the artist's home. He'd thought of McGillis too and thought maybe he'd find interest in the story of the artist. He remembers now, when McGillis prevents him from falling on his face, holding him up by the waist, he remembers and drapes his arm around McGillis's shoulders.

'I never told you about this carpet, did I?'

'Just try to stand on your own two feet.'

'I don't have anything else to drink... The artist killed himself.'

'Stand up straight, everyone's watching.'

Gaelio shrugs himself out of McGillis's hold, dusts himself off of imaginary dirt, and looks around the room with his most beautiful smile. Perfectly alright. His parents' guests, if they had indeed been watching, are preoccupied with themselves now. If there are those watching them—the daughter of what's his name, his father's associate—it's not precisely him but McGillis they have in mind.

'Will you get me more?' he says, holding onto the lapels of a short waiter with his right hand, one of the staff her mother regularly hires for events like her son's graduation. He likes those uniforms his mother chooses for them, make them look stylized, she has good taste, he thinks, the carpet be damned. His left hand plays with the waiter's tie only a second before he continues. 'Gin, this time. Champagne's too bubbly.'

As soon as the waiter leaves he turns again to his friend, who's engaged in conversation with Carta and a blond man that seems very familiar. They talk of the FLN, or maybe Fédération de France du FLN. Either way it's boring, he lets them know, and Carta turns to him, gloved hand covering her small mouth.

'A sci-poli graduate, signed up for the Master en Sociologie, and he can't even find it in himself to discuss Algeria.'

'Uh, I don't really understand what you mean,' he starts but then the waiter is back with his gin and tonic so Gaelio hugs him. 'Be my friend all night,' he says and the waiter nods timidly.

'Leave him alone,' Carta says, prying Gaelio's arms from around the waiter's shoulders. 'There's other people here.'

'But it's my party.'

'We also graduated, so it's not just yours.'

'Well, I suppose that's fine. We should go somewhere else soon, it's so stuffy in here, and mother keeps giving me that look.'

'My father will be here any minute, so I agree we should leave.'

'You two are incorrigible.'

'And you're coming with us,' Gaelio tells Carta. 'I know you brought pants to change out of that dress. You're just as terrible.'

'I think you look beautiful in that dress,' the blond guy says.

Gaelio barely registers it, he keeps trying to place his blond hair and delicate features but comes up with nothing.

'Oh please,' she scoffs.

'I agree,' McGillis says and Gaelio giggles into his almost empty glass, 'you really do.'

'P-please,' she says again, almost stuttering.

'Go change in my room so we can-' Gaelio starts but the waiter is back with another gin and tonic.

'Oh! You really are my best friend tonight!' he kisses the waiter on the cheek twice.

'I saw you were almost done...'

'A blessing, an angel!'

'Do you want anything else,' he asks the other three but they all shake their heads.

'Thank you,' McGillis says, then turns to Carta. 'It's about time for my father to arrive so if you won't change then we should go.'

'I have to finish my drink, McGillis,' Gaelio tells him, gulping down as fast as he can.

'I think it'll take you less to do that than it'll take Carta to change outfits.'

'Yeah, yeah,' he hands the empty glass to the waiter and starts on the full one.

'Guess it can't hurt,' Carta says, trailing off. Without a word she leaves in the direction of Gaelio's room.

'Are you coming with us?' McGillis asks the blond man.

Gaelio vaguely wonders if his friend feels as if he's looking in a mirror when he speaks to that man.

'If Ms Carta wants me to...' the poor sap says.

She sure knows how to pick them, Gaelio's about to say when his mother looks his way with her cocked eyebrow, signaling his time for exit.

'We should go,' he interrupts himself to finish what's left of his gin and tonic, 'it's time.'

Not a second later one of the servants walks solemnly to the door and opens it to greet Monsieur Fareed and the boy that's always with him. Gaelio swears he can hear McGillis's teeth clench.

'That's our cue,' he whispers into his friend's ear and takes him by the arm, leading him towards the rooms. Carta's just exiting Gaelio's bedroom and the way her eyes widen at the sight of her two friends for only a second lets Gaelio know she gets what happened.

'We'll take the back door. Your blond friend is lost, we'll say a prayer for him on our way to Oberkampf.'

In the back room the staff hired for the night smoke cigarettes and trade quips but all stand at attention and silence when Gaelio and his friends come in the door.

'Don't mind us,' he says, 'we're making our daring escape.'

'Thank you for your hard work tonight,' McGillis says and Carta and Gaelio exchange a look.

'Don't wait up for us, Nounou,' Gaelio tells Mme Dupin when she watches him in stern silence, the way she used to watch him steal bread as a child.

In a corner of the room, sullen and quiet, is the angel-waiter, and Gaelio winks at him, bows, and drags the r when saying Merci before him and his friends are out the door in the crisp air of the summer night.

In the back of the taxi Gaelio leans his head on McGillis's shoulder and listens to him and Carta discuss whatever it is they're discussing until they ask for his opinion.

'I don't have one,' he says, firmly.

'How can't you?' she says, always one for passion.

'I don't know, what's the topic?'

'Algeria,' McGillis's offers.

'Oh who cares, it's late.'

'Many people care.'

'Well, I think they should return, the country's been independent for a while. Why should they stay? Les pieds-noirs have all returned, no? That's what independence is.'

'It's not as simple, Gaelio,' McGillis says in that tone he uses when he wants Gaelio to know he's said something stupid but won't ever clarify what it was.

'Then you'll explain it to me three days from now, when my hangover's let up. Right now, let's focus on what's at hand.'

He can hear Carta sigh in barely concealed exasperation but McGillis's shoulder's always been comfortable enough for car rides for Gaelio to care enough to be too offended.

* * *

Waking up is the hardest part of the day. But Mr Crank always tells him that if he can withstand that moment when he's first thrown back into the real world, then that's half the battle. The loads come in at 5:30. If he's had a waiting job the night before then he barely gets any sleep, but unloading the flour sacks at different patisseries along with Mr Crank is his favorite part of his day. Of his life. They work in silence, passing the heavy sacks from hand to hand, into the patisserie, then they drive off to the next one, in silence. Sometimes Rosemary Clooney sings on the radio of the car. Sometimes she doesn't. When he first started, some of the bakers gave him pieces of bread left over from the night before and patted his head. Mr Crank patted it too, dusting his dark hair with specks of white flour.

Today's different, though. Mr Crank's sitting at the table for breakfast when Ein comes into the small kitchen.

'We're taking the day off,' he says, staring at his cup of coffee.

'Why?' Ein asks, sitting himself opposite the old man.

It's a while before he replies, but when he does he looks at Ein.

'You didn't forget what day's today, did you?'

Ein searches for a date in his mind and then it hits him.

'Are we going to Montreuil?' he asks.

Mr Crank nods, his eyes back on his coffee.

'I can't believe it's almost been ten years,' Ein says.

Mr Crank nods again before saying 'It's also been almost ten years since that. Not much has changed.'

Ein nods again.

They're silent on the way to Montreuil-sous-Bois (his mother always said the full name), no Rosemary Clooney on the radio. And they're silent standing at her grave with the flowers, petals weary from the trip, stems tired from Ein's grip. As he did when he was just a child and they'd stood in front of that grave before he took Ein in as his own kid, Mr Crank poses a hand on Ein's shoulder and says a prayer for the dead. He thinks his mother was a Catholic but he can't be sure. His father was an atheist. There's some sort of poetry in the fact that he's buried where she was born and vice versa. Like they've sought each other out but never quite found more of each other aside from their countries.

On their way back in the city they see young children playing in the streets in the summer heat. He gets out of the car at Bagnolet. He likes the walk, even if it's long, through Pyrenees and then Belleville, all the way to their apartment on Rue de Rochechouart. He watches the students in the cafes, coming in and out of the metro, free of care for the summer. When he gets home Mr Crank's left already, a note on the kitchen table saying Julieta called for him. Ein dials her number with hesitation. It's either a waiting job at a residence or—

'I need you to cover for me.'

'I can't do that, last time—'

'I know, I know, but I need you to. If they don't pay you I'll pay you myself.'

'That's what you said last time.'

'And I got you that job at that rich house. I wouldn't ask you if it weren't urgent.'

Ein takes a deep breath.

'What time?'

'Be there this afternoon, at 8:30, ask for Elise, she'll tell you the rest.'

'You'll pay me if—'

'I gotta go now. Yes, yes. Bye.'

Au Petit Suisse, where Julieta works, is basically on the other side of town, but Ein likes walking. He doesn't think himself a sentimental person, but something about the anonimity of walking brings him the same kind of comfort that he found on the long walks he took down the streets of Algers, holding his father's hand. The moments in which he is just Ein, nothing else. So he decides the minute she hangs up that he'll walk there, making mental notes of the time it'll take him—assuming they have a uniform at his disposal, he'll have to change there, which means Julieta thought of this and his shift won't be until 9, maybe 9:30, but he can take his own uniform, easily arranged to look like the ones worn at the place, just in case. If he keeps his mind busy then he is just Ein, too.

At a quarter past eight he goes to the bistrot's back door and asks for Elise, who's smoking outside. She nods, ushers him in the back room, shows him his uniform and walks him through the process. He's been there before so he knows.

'She alright?' Elise asks suddenly.

'Hm?'

'Julieta,' she sighs. Maybe she mumbles something. From the syllables and the breath intake Ein knows what it is. He wonders how she knows he's Algerian. Or half-Algerian. Or whatever. But maybe she doesn't mumble anything.

'She's fine. Busy.'

'I see,' she says, and walks away, strikes up a conversation with another one of the servers.

It's nearing eleven when he walks in, the student he waited on some weeks before, the one with the childlike glee, like the gin and tonics were toys and presents. With him are his two friends, and someone Ein doesn't remember seeing that time. The student is talking, animatedly, his hands expressive, and Ein almost smiles when he remembers the bow, and the wink, so he walks up to them.

'Hello,' he says, 'how are you?'

'Oh,' the student looks at him. He's so tall next to Ein, taller than Mr Crank maybe. 'Hello,' he says, 'the other waiter already showed us our table.'

'Yes, of course.'

Of course he wouldn't remember, how could Ein even think that he would. He clenches his fists walking away. He doesn't know the name of the waiter who tends to their table—he never asked and they never offered—and he only glances their way a couple of times, almost sure that someone's watching him wait on the other customers, but can't catch any of them in the act. He watches, distractedly, as the tall student leans closely into the table, as to whisper a secret, and the way he poses his hand on his friend's shoulder, or the way he laughs louder than the other three. But only through a couple of glances. Just before closing time, when he's leaning ever so slightly against the wall, the student comes up to him, startles him to his feet.

'My friend tells me you were the angel that saved my life last time. I'm sorry, I'd had too much.'

'Oh,' Ein looks up at him. He's so tall.

'We're going to his place,' when he says this he turns to his friends, 'right, McGillis?' he asks. One of them—McGillis, probably—nods his head. 'A small thing, with some other friends. I'd like it if you'd come with us!'

'Oh,' Ein says. That's a lot to say.

'Here,' the student hands him a paper, 'this is the address. Just knock on the door, the front one's always unlocked.'

Ein looks at the paper. He wonders if he wrote this down while they were seated at the table, or if he carries around pieces of paper with the address to his friend's place written in them, just in case.

'Thank you,' he says. He wants to turn this down—it's late and he's tired and he won't enjoy it, he knows—but the student looks—hopeful? Genuine, at least. The way he looked when he called him an angel, like he's not lying.

'I'll see you there!' he says, running his hand through the lapels of Ein's uniform again. 'We have to go now, but please come!' And he walks out the door.

Ein feels some kind of strange mix of elation and nerves and confusion. He tasks himself with cleaning up the bistrot for closedown, readies himself for Elise to tell him they can't pay him because they pay Julieta a salary, and she has a contract, and he has to work this out with someone else, and she's just another waitress, and places the paper on the breast pocket of his uniform. He won't remember until the next day, when he's unloading the sacks of flour, that he left it there, on the breast pocket of a uniform that's not his own.

* * *

'Listen to me when I'm talking,' his father says.

'I am listening,' Gaelio replies, cooing at the cat cradled in his arms. 'Aren't we? Yes, we are. Yes, we are.'

'The Tanzanian Ambassador is coming with his son, he's roughly your same age. He's a law student, graduate, I don't know.'

'We don't like lawyers, do we?'

'Please pay attention. I want you to show him around town. He'll be studying at Paris 1 and since—'

'Okay, okay. I get it.'

'Are you sure?'

'How can you doubt me, Papa? Really...'

'The guests'll be here at—'

'Where's maman?' he interrupts, his face buried in the cat's belly.

'Eh, your mother's at the hair dresser's. Why?'

'Did she hire servers?'

'Yes, I think so. I'm not sure. It's only the Ambassador, Fareed and the Issues. Rustal's still in China.'

'But you're not planning on making nounou help out, are you? She's frail,' to illustrate this he holds the cat up and moves its paws softly.

'She probably hired people, I'm not sure. Are we clear on the matter?'

'What matter?'

'The Ambassador's son!'

'Oh, yes. Sure.'

Gaelio calls McGillis twice to make sure he's really coming, despite the fact that his father is too.

'We have to babysit some Ambassador guy—'

'His son.'

'Whatever. Is your phone line still crossed with your neighbor's? Any more riveting stories?'

'I think it's fixed.'

'Aw, why, it was the most interesting thing about your shoddy apartment. The only interesting thing.'

'I thought that was the fact that I can be on my own.'

'Same thing.'

'Anything else? If not I have to get going.'

'I'll see you here.'

He only leaves his room when he hears his mother coming in the door, to greet her, and then to help Mme Dupin put away the groceries. It takes him a while to get ready, and doesn't really realize people have arrived until Carta knocks at his door and then lets herself in.

'What's the point of knocking if you're coming in anyway?'

'What's the point of trying to look beautiful if people can still tell you're a moron?'

'They can't tell. And I'm not.'

'You're a child,' she says looking through his things, a habit from their childhood, when they played at being bickering siblings ratting each other out for any petty offense.

'You are a child.'

'You have competition, by the way.'

'What do you mean?' he asks her reflection in his mirror.

'The Ambassador's son—'

'Oh, is he here already?' Gaelio turns to her.

'No. I met him this morning. He's an even bigger moron than you.'

Gaelio makes a face at her, yanks a box out of her hands.

'Don't touch my stuff.'

'You're too old to still live here, you know? Almost twenty two...'

'You're older still.'

'By four months only!'

'Seems like a long time to me.'

When they enter the large living room he remembers why he'd asked his father about the servers: the short waiter is there, in his fitted uniform, with a tray in hand. Gaelio waves at him from the threshold then crosses the room towards him.

'You're here!' he says, but his mother takes him by the arm before the waiter replies.

'Did you greet our guests, Gaelio?'

'Of course, maman. And you look so beautiful tonight, as usual.'

She takes him to the guests and when he turns the waiter's gone, back in the kitchen probably. The Ambassador and his family arrive and Gaelio takes the opportunity to go into the kitchen, wave at the waiter from the door and ask him for a gin and tonic with a wink.

Iok Kujan, as it turns out, has been in Paris many times before. He doesn't really appear the helpless boy who needs expert guidance around the city that Gaelio's father painted him to be. One of his closest friends, he assures, is Parisian, and he's visited Rustal's place in Marseille, too. He's talking but Gaelio's not really listening, though Carta keeps making faces at him, or laughing non discreetly behind her hand.

When the waiter comes with his second gin and tonic, Gaelio grabs him by the tie before he leaves as fast as he'd done before.

'You didn't come to the party that day.'

'Oh. I thought you'd forgotten.'

'Of course I didn't. We waited for you.'

'He did, that's true,' McGillis, just arrived, chimes in unprompted. He got here a full hour after his father, probably anticipating that his father will want to leave shortly after.

'It is. We all did,' Gaelio says.

'I'm sorry.'

'Then you'll have to come with us today. We're going to McGillis's place again.'

'Oh, I—'

'Where are we going?' Iok asks from his seat.

'McGillis's place.'

'Do you usually party with the help?' he sounds sincere, like he's actually wondering. So Gaelio replies sincerely.

'Oh, he's a friend, right... What's your name?' he turns to the waiter, realizes he's still holding on to his tie.

'Ein Dalton,' the waiter whispers.

'Ein!' Gaelio repeats, 'Ein! You'll come then, Ein?'

Ein looks at Gaelio, and then at the others, and he doesn't say a word.

'He's working, Gaelio. You shouldn't bother the help,' Iok offers.

'Ein, give me your phone number.'

Carta giggles, and Iok very audibly says 'Really?' but McGillis doesn't say anything, he just nods, so Gaelio repeats himself.

'Give me your phone number so I can call you, when you're not working. And you can come with us!'

The tray on Ein's hand trembles. Gaelio takes it for him, worry on his face, then smiles and places a hand on Ein's shoulder.

'Oh! Sorry, you can't write while holding on to all those things. McGillis give me pen and paper.'

Gaelio's found that, for some reason, he can always expect McGillis to be carrying certain things. Chocolate, for one. Pieces of paper, and pens, and a Swiss Army knife. Mostly chocolate, which is good, because Gaelio enjoys chocolate. So of course McGillis hands Ein a pen and a piece of paper and, using the tray as surface, Ein scribbles down some numbers, his handwriting shaky. Gaelio worries he's been straining himself too hard carrying heavy trays around, so he makes a point of going into the kitchen later and telling his nounou to tell the other servers to help him if they see him carrying large stuff.

'My name's Gaelio,' Gaelio realizes he's never told him either. 'Gaelio Bauduin.'

'Yes,' Ein says looking at his feet, 'I knew that.'

'I'm McGillis Fareed,' McGillis extends his hand out for Ein to shake. 'This is Carta Issue, and he's Iok Kujan. It's a pleasure to meet you again, Ein.'

Ein looks at McGillis's hand, takes it, and then excuses himself. He comes back after he's taken two steps.

'Monsieur Bauduin,' he starts, but Gaelio interrupts.

'Gaelio is fine!'

'Monsieur Gaelio,' he says then, 'I need the tray.'

Gaelio starts laughing, pats Ein in the back. 'I'll take it into the kitchen for you!'

'That's really not necessary,' Ein tells him.

'It's fine, it's fine.'

When he returns, Carta gives him a look, her eyes narrowed.

'You really didn't need to take the tray yourself.'

Gaelio rolls his eyes at her.

'I mean it, it makes him look incompetent. He was probably offended.'

'R-really? You think so? I didn't want to offend him.'

'It's fine,' Iok says, 'he'll get over it. You asked for his phone number even though he's from a different standing. That probably means a lot to him anyway.'

'I also needed to speak to nounou, I didn't think the tray thing—'

'Don't worry so much, Gaelio. You can explain yourself later. He'll come with your gin and tonic again anyway.'

'Where's he from?' Iok asks.

'You think he knows? He didn't even know his name until now,' Carta laughs.

'I just forgot to ask!'

'I'm impressed you can recognize that his accent's foreign,' McGillis tells him.

'I went to l'Ecole française back home, I had French classmates, and from other places too. I think he might be Algerian.'

'Doesn't really matter, does it?' Gaelio says. 'You can ask him if you want.' Then he changes his tone, a little, addresses only McGillis. 'Your father's leaving. Coast is clear.'

McGillis laughs and then takes a sip of his kir royale.

* * *

In the kitchen, Mme Dupin and the other two servers present tonight tell Ein to stick to pouring drinks for Monsieur Gaelio and his friends for the rest of the night. He sees to the preparation of a gin and tonic, spices and all, then goes down to the living room where the small group of friends is huddled in the large couch.

'They won't let me pass hors d'oeuvres around,' he says to no one in particular.

'That's better, Ein! You can rest. Stay with us,' Monsieur Gaelio hugs his shoulders, taking the glass from his hand.

'Where are you from?' Iok asks him.

Maybe it's Monsieur Gaelio's hold on him, his arm is so long, he is so tall, or maybe it's the question, but Ein feels smaller than he usually does.

'Rochechouart,' he says, barely.

'Oh, Aquitaine?' Mademoiselle Issue asks.

'Eh, n-no. Rue de Rochechouart, in the 9th arrondissement.'

Mademoiselle Issue and Monsieur Kujan laugh, Monsieur McGillis cracks a smile.

'I mean, what country? Where's your accent from?'

Of course he did, Ein, you idiot, he tells himself. Who'd ask about your street.

'Algers.'

'Ah, I thought so,' Monsieur Kujan says, his eyes away from Ein.

'Well,' Monsieur Gaelio says, 'there are great clubs in the 9th, do you have any favorites? Maybe we could go there tonight, then you could come with us after all!'

'I don't really know any clubs, Monsieur Gaelio.'

'Don't you go out? Where do you take your partners?'

'I-I don't have those,' Ein has a prickling feeling all over his back, like when he asked questions in school and others laughed.

'You're so boring,' Mr Gaelio pouts, Ein can see it out of the corner of his eye. Of course, though, he'd think Ein is boring. He's so different. 'Here I was thinking you'd be so fun, what with the gin and tonics and all.'

'That's his job,' Mr Kujan says.

Ein realizes maybe Elise knew he was Algerian because of his accent too. That's probably how all of them know. He'd never really given much thought to it. He knows when people are from Quebec, and he knows when they're not from Paris, and he recognizes the Malian cadence in the voices of his old neighbors, back in Montreuil, but he'd never really put much thought into his accent being from anywhere but himself. As if, like he, it didn't belong anywhere. Neither here nor there.

'But no one's as good at it as he is.' Mr Gaelio's still hugging Ein, despite the latter's attempts to wiggle out from his hold, and somehow that's comforting rather than stifling. 'Doesn't matter. Then we'll have to show you a good time,' he says, flashing his smile at Ein. He's so close. 'We can discover the best clubs, it'll be like an adventure. You can't say no now, you're the only one who's a local to the 9th.' The other three all have their eyes on them. Ein wonders if this is how Mr Gaelio always feels, at the center of attention, people listening to his words, to his thoughts, never invisible.

'I have an early morning tomorrow,' he says.

'Oh, you do?' Mr Gaelio looks so sincere. He's different, somehow.

'Work.'

'What do you work on, so early?' Mr Fareed asks.

'I deliver flour to patisseries.'

They all sound impressed.

'You work so hard, Ein! You should take the day off!'

'I can't, I'm very sorry, Monsieur Gaelio.'

'Don't worry,' Mr Gaelio says the moment Ein catches Mme Dupin peering out of the kitchen door looking for him, surely. 'I'll call you, you'll come when you can, yes?'

'Yes,' he says, feeling the weight of the absence of Mr Gaelio's arm on his shoulders.

'Nounou's calling you,' he says softly.

'Yes,' Ein says again, and leaves.

Sometimes he doesn't know what to make of any of this, so he tries not to dwell on it too hard. In his mind, his mother's death was eclipsed not two months later by the massive massacre of Algerian immigrants—just like she was—at the hands of French police. Hard to reconcile the homeland of his father with this manner of cruelty and violence—having grown up believing in French ideals of solidarity—and hard as well to reconcile for himself an identity as anything other than just Ein. French, Algerian, gaouri, pied-noir, outside the confines of his own home he was never just Ein but all those things, so many things to digest, and none of them gave him—not one nor the other—the right to exist on this earth. So he left with his widowed mother for France, met Crank as his father's old military friend—they'd fought together in the War—and watched with anger and impassiveness alternately how in this city he was not just Ein, either. The massacre that befell those like his mother was not his. The police who brutally murdered them were not of his kin, either.


	2. il n'y a pas de révolution sans amour

Gaelio pulls his scarf up over his hair so the rain doesn't ruin his hairdo—it's not that easy to accomplish a hairstyle that has so many different directions and pulls, and he's not about to let it go to waste. It wasn't raining when he set out for Carta's apartment, damn it. There goes pulling the drinks cart out onto the balcony, sitting under the stars.

He hurries his step, taking cover under the protruding balconies, the hems of his pants already too wet.

When he climbs up the steps to her place—the wood is dented and worn right in the middle so he always places his foot to the side, maybe help balance the pain of the poor staircase—he tries swatting the humidity away with his hands.

Carta opens the door and regards him with a raised eyebrow.  
'You look like a tragic Russian widow,' she says before letting him in.  
'I'll take that as a compliment.'

Gaelio walks past her, taking off the scarf and setting it on the buffet by the door.  
'Where did you get it?' Carta asks him, chewing on a maraschino cherry.  
'This cute little store called Hermès,' he tells her, looking in the full body mirror Carta hung in the vestibule—he watched her and McGillis hang it (her hands uncertain) when she first moved into the place.

She rolls her eyes, he can see her in the mirror, then takes him into the bedroom to show him the wooden room divider her mother brought back from her last trip to visit Carta's grandparents, on it a delicate cherry tree branch with many blossoms and a small green bird perched on one of the smaller boughs hand painted with care. He also recognizes the lettering in the bottom as kanji.

'What does it say?' he asks, almost innocently. She never really learned.  
'It's a spell to keep my enemies away, but it doesn't seem to be working. You're here.'  
'Shut up.'  
'Did you call him?' she asks after leading him into the living room.  
'I thought you would.'  
'Why on Earth would I call him! I can't even remember his name!' she throws her hands in the air and Gaelio flinches because she's holding a glass—she was about to pour him brandy.  
'What? Who are you talking about?'  
'That boy! The waiter! Who are you talking about?' she puts the glass down and points a finger at him.  
'Oh. I thought it was McGillis.'  
'And why would I call him,' she says, indignant. 'That pompous idiot, with his—'  
'So he's not coming?'

She stares at him, maybe upset that he interrupted, maybe just still angry at McGillis for something, then rolls her eyes, finally pours the alcohol.  
'If you mean your waiter—'  
'Ein—'  
'—then not unless you invited him. If you mean McGillis, then I suppose I might have sent an invitation his way, more or less.'  
'I didn't call him,' Gaelio says, sitting down on the armchair he always uses when he visits.  
'And why not?' Carta's sitting opposite him.

There's a special movement of the wrist his mother taught him that makes alcohol leave a wake in the glass, he always liked the way it looked, a thin veil of liquid dying the transparent crystal. He watches the brandy roll around in his glass. For some reason he wasn't about to call Ein from his parents' house so he walked towards the river and to the public phones by d'Orsay and he stood there, his weight supported on his left arm over the phone, the receiver cradled between his ear and his shoulder. The raspy voice of an old man, clearly just woken and in a bad mood, spoke and Gaelio hung up. He checked his watch, 3:27PM, then walked back home with his hands deep in his pockets.

'Too busy,' he waves his free hand in the air.  
'Call now,' she says, gesturing towards her phone on the table in front of him. She tucks her feet under her legs on her large couch when she says this. 'Tell him to come. There's enough for four, my nounou made a large plate of lasagna. I have enough cheese.'

Gaelio smiles at her. Sometimes he wants to hug her, just to spite her, ruffle her hair, just to make her pout.

When he rotates the dial as if he knew the number by heart—he does—Carta mumbles 'thought you'd been too busy' and he mimics her.

The phone rings twice, he thinks, before Ein—Gaelio smiles recognizing the voice—picks up.

'Ein, it's me, Gaelio Bauduin.'  
'Oh, Monsieur Baud—Gaelio,' Ein says. 'How are you?'  
'I'm good!' Gaelio wonders if it's true that smiles can be heard over the phone, can Ein hear his? 'And you?'  
'Me too, thank you.'  
'I'm sorry I took so long to—'  
'Oh no, no. Eh, I...'  
Far be it for Gaelio to let any silence be uncomfortable, or be, at all, regardless of the other party.  
'Did you get caught in the rain? I was completely soaked earlier, luckily had a scarf with me,' he twirls the telephone cord around his fingers and Carta taps her glass, glaring at him.  
'Not really, fortunately. It'll let up soon.'  
'It should, it should! Ein, do you work early tomorrow again?'  
'Almost every day,' he says, a little hesitant.  
'But if we don't keep you until late—'  
'Monsieur Gaelio—'  
'Can you get to Cardinal Lemoine? Line 10. We're having dinner at Carta's, it's just a couple blocks away—'  
'Monsieur Gaelio—'  
'Do you have where to write? I'll give you the address!'  
He hears some shuffling, and Ein's breathing—Carta's telephone company is very good, no party lines like McGillis's, but that might also be a bad thing.  
'Come have dinner with us!' he says, since Ein takes a bit too long to reply—two seconds, maybe more. He hasn't been keeping count. 'Please.'  
'I'm very grateful, Monsieur Gaelio.' More shuffling. 'Um, I can be there in half an hour, maybe more,' Ein explains, almost as if he's apologizing—absurd. 'Is that alright?'  
'Perfect! Perfect. McGillis isn't here either. We'll have more—Carta's nounou made some delicious—what are they called Carta? Carta! Well, it doesn't matter. They're very good. I'll save you some!'  
'Thank you, Monsieur Gaelio, but it's not necessary.'  
'Of course it is, you have to—so—' he looks at Carta who's speaking finally.  
'He won't be able to get here if you keep him glued to the phone.'  
'Yes! Ein! I'll be waiting.'  
'Thank you, Monsieur Gaelio.'  
'Gaelio is fine!' he hangs up the phone. 'Why didn't you tell me the name of the things?'  
Carta sticks her tongue out at him. He throws a cushion at her.

* * *

Mr Crank hands Ein the umbrella silently, nodding when Ein says he won't be late. Even if he were, Ein's never overslept, Mr Crank knows. Not even once. It's pride he allows himself.

He'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't been expecting the call. He'd watch the light dust of flour catch the early morning sunlight and think of Mr Gaelio, his welcoming smile, the inflection of his voice.

His second year in France, one day in January a little girl, maybe three years younger than him, around ten or so, came to sit by his side on the bench just outside their school. She waited for him to acknowledge her—furrowed brow—and nodded as soon as he did, as if she'd been waiting for a cue. She then took one of the pains au chocolat from the paper bag on Ein's lap, no warning, and after swallowing it full—he was too thrown to say anything—she introduced herself as Julieta, presented her hand for him to stretch. She wore thick mittens but took her right one off before offering her hand. Ein took note of the detail instantly, he barely grasped why. Tensions were at their highest then, the October massacre only months away, Algerian independence no longer merely a lofty dream. Although none of that should've really mattered when he took note of Julieta taking off her mitten, he did, but he barely grasped the meaning. Their friendship—though he calls it so hesitantly—born out of mutual admiration, of shared interests and similar pasts, was the only one he cared to maintain into adulthood.

Her sudden appearance in his life was nothing like Gaelio's. But a similar sentiment of durability accompanies Ein as he walks to Barbès – Rochechouart station under the wide umbrella he gave Mr Crank on his birthday when he was fourteen—he saved up for four months.

His hand is already raised, prepared to knock, when he hears the voice behind him.

'Ein Dalton, hello. I see Gaelio called you. It's nice to see you here.'  
Ein turns to find Mr Gaelio's friend, the shoulders of his jacket wet with rain.  
'Thank you, Mr Fareed. Likewise.'  
Mr Fareed seems to study him. He says nothing while he watches Ein's face, wearing a subdued smile.  
'You may call me McGillis,' he says finally. Then motions towards the door. 'Shall we?'  
Mr Gaelio opens the door with a glass on his hand, is careful to drink all its contents before hugging Ein.  
'I'm so happy you—' he leans back, his hands still on Ein's shoulders. 'I saved you folhados, that was the name, I remembered—I'm really glad you came.'  
Ein smiles. It isn't entirely something he means to do; he doesn't fight it, of course, but it's not completely voluntary, either.  
'Thank you for the invitation, Mr Gaelio.'  
'My pleasure!' then he turns to Mr Fareed—McGillis. 'Why's Carta upset at you?'  
'It's nice to see you too, Gaelio. You should probably let us in farther than the entrance.'

Mr Gaelio leads them farther into the house, his arm linked with Ein, and he keeps talking—about the food, Mlle Issue being upset, the rain (he has to be careful because of his hair)—with excitement, as if Ein was the one he meant to tell all of these things to, sincerely. Ein smiles again.

Mlle Issue's sitting on a long sofa, one knee bent and her chin tucked above it, her other leg on the couch. She looks like a cat, curled up in her favorite corner, like a cat when she offers her cheek for Mr McGillis to kiss in greeting, almost as if doing him a favor.

'Mlle Issue,' Ein says. 'Thank you for your invitation.'  
'Of course, Ein. A friend of Gaelio is a friend of—well, I'm not sure, you're his first friend, honestly.'  
'Is not!' Mr Gaelio cuts in. 'You're my—and McGillis too!'  
'Oh, dear,' Mlle Issue shakes her head. 'His third friend. He's wet the bed more times than that in the last year.'  
Mr Gaelio's eyes open wide, and he vehemently denies the charges.

Ein finds it amusing. Lack of friends is, of course, a joke. A shameful matter. Lack of peers, and isolation, are funny, not something that happens, certainly not to someone like Mr Gaelio. Ein smiles again.

'I'm really honored to be his friend,' he says.

Mr Gaelio stops his tirade and looks at him in silence for a moment before ruffling his hair, smile on his face. Ein has to go pour himself and Mr Gaelio a drink and notices Mlle Issue drops the subject. Ein suspects her arsenal of things with which she teases Mr Gaelio is vast. That's the benefit of knowing someone for long, like they seem to. Julieta knows he's somehow perturbed by ghosts. He knows Julieta was far too old when the truth about Santa Claus was finally revealed to her.

'You don't need to pour my drinks, Ein!'  
'It's fine, Mr Gaelio.'  
'Try this,' he says, holding out a small pastry in his hands, insistently, like he's about to—he is, after all he must see Ein's both hands are occupied with glass and bottle respectively, and Mr Gaelio's hand's far too close to Ein's face for it to be just a simple—'It's the folhado I told you about!'

Ein opens his mouth and takes a bite of the pastry, feels prickling all over his face as Mr Gaelio watches him expectantly, waiting for Ein's opinion. It's delicious, of course. The dough is soft, and it's made with vegetables, spinach and peppers and aubergines, well cooked, and not soaked. It's different—for one this one is savory—than the ones their Brazilian neighbor back in Montreuil shared with them their first Christmas in France, but she'd explained calmly—and his mother had nodded knowingly—they were meant to be, for she was not Portuguese. He sets the bottle down and takes the remainder of the folhado from Mr Gaelio's hand.

'It's great,' he says, smiling, before taking another bite.  
'Of course it is,' Mlle Issue says from her couch, taking the glass Mr McGillis is handing her. 'My nounou is the best.'  
'Mine is,' Mr Gaelio says, moving to sit on the wide arms of an armchair. 'Sit here, Ein!' he gestures towards the armchair's seat itself.

From where he stands, Ein finds the other three paint some kind of picture he'd recognize from newspapers or books or last summer's movement as it was depicted on TV—Mlle Issue's apartment is right in the middle, the epicenter of the revolution, so maybe it's not just a matter of placing images he's seen from afar with people who might've actually lived them. He watches them only for a second longer, Mr Gaelio and Mr McGillis, sat on the other end of the long couch, discussing which record to listen to, while Mlle Issue pulls on Mr Gaelio's sleeve, asks him to turn on the oven in the kitchen.

'You do it—Ein, come!'  
Ein finally sits and Mr Gaelio rests his arm on his shoulder, leans his weight just a tad on Ein.  
'Have some more folhados.'

There's a platter on the low table in front of him with a couple of them on it.

'They're for you.'  
'McGillis didn't have any, either.'  
'Tant pis! Ein's the guest, not McGillis.'  
Mr McGillis raises an eyebrow at this.  
'We're all family here, right Carta?'  
She huffs.  
'You're the brother we're ashamed of and keep secret, locked in the basement.'  
'Well! And you're—' she smacks him on the thigh. 'What's that for!'  
Mr Gaelio leans too heavily on Ein, so he catches his arm and Mr Gaelio turns to watch him, soft expression on his face.  
'Thank you, Ein, at least you're not like these monsters.'  
'Go turn on the oven, don't stall.'  
'I'll go,' Ein says, to Mr Gaelio mostly.  
'Nonsense, Carta'll go. Tell me about your family. You've seen mine up close after all, it's only fair. Hurry before McGillis starts quoting David Cooper.'  
'Who's that?'  
'It's an anti-psychiatry psychiatrist who talks about the corrosive and corrupting nature of the family and the inner subtle violence it imposes on everyone.'  
'Oh.'  
'But tell me about your family!'  
'Someone has to turn on the oven,' Mlle Issue reminds them.  
'I'll go,' Mr McGillis says, rising from his chair. 'We're all family here, right?'

Ein wonders if Mr McGillis means for his words to always be acerbic. Not that it matters.

'So, Ein?'  
'What do you want to know?' Ein shuffles in his seat.  
'Do you have any siblings? Where were you born? When did you come here? And your parents?'  
'Um, I—' Ein looks down at his hands, feels Mr Gaelio's eyes on them too. 'Don't have any siblings. My mother and I moved from Alger ten years ago, after—my father is buried back there—she's in Montreuil—buried—that was eight years ago.'  
'I'm sorry, Ein.' He places his hand on Ein's shoulder and squeezes tightly.

Ein smiles up at him.

'You shouldn't ask such personal things,' Mlle Issue says, looking over the back of the couch, in the direction of the kitchen, as if she was distracted by something else.  
'I'm sorry, Ein, I—'  
'It's fine, Mr Gaelio, it's alright. I wouldn't answer if I didn't want to.'  
'Thank you, Ein,' he says, grips his shoulder again.  
'He's being too kind to you,' Mlle Issue turns to Mr Gaelio. 'He'll spoil you. Even more.'  
'You're the one who's spoiled.'  
'The lasagna's in the oven,' Mr Fareed announces, returning.  
'Thank God.'

* * *

'And then he looked him straight in the eye,' Gaelio leans in closer to Ein, sitting by his side at the table, holding onto his shoulder, almost as if to mimic whispering in his ear, 'and said "I should've stayed here because you're too indecisive to fire me."'

McGillis, in front of him, next to Carta, lifts one of his eyebrows, smiles his usual smile, and taps his fingers on the table.

'He says it better than I do but he's always so disagreeable.'  
'You both are,' Carta rolls her eyes, focuses on cutting slices off the fourme d'Ambert in front of her—how she can eat that thing Gaelio will never know, they had a contest as children (it resulted in their being grounded and she won) to eat it as quickly as possible and his eyes watered and she referred to him as Crybaby for two months straight, no exceptions, not that he actually cried, and oh—  
'Ein! What was your childhood like?'

Ein immediately retreats his hands to his lap—some sort of habit?—and watches them.

'Gaelio,' McGillis isn't tapping on the table anymore. 'Help me get the dessert, and the coffee. You want coffee?'  
'McGillis, I was—'  
'I'd like coffee, please,' Ein says, his hands back on the table. He's looking directly at McGillis.  
Gaelio ruffles his hair.  
'I'll get it for you, Ein!'

And so he goes, McGillis in tow.

While he fills the mokka up with water—cold like nounou told him once—and coffee and places it on the stove, McGillis starts talking.

'You should be more careful, when you ask him personal things.'  
'Hm? How do you mean?' Carta's mokka's shiny surface is nonetheless too opaque for him to make out his reflection on it, so he turns to his friend.  
'His childhood. He told you where he's from.'

McGillis has made it a habit of cryptically explaining things, expecting Gaelio to put the pieces together—since they were children too, like during their field trip to the Château de Vincennes and McGillis wanted to—oh. Of course. How could he be so careless? He's such a—if Ein moved to France ten years ago, he was there for the start of the war, and his father died—he must've—

'I'll take this,' McGillis says, holding a tray with four dessert plates and on them slices of gâteau roulé. 'You bring the coffee.'  
'Ah, sure,' he watches McGillis leave, then turns to look at the mokka, tries to listen for the slow boiling of water. It starts whistling lowly when Ein comes into the kitchen.

'Do you need help, Mr Gaelio?'  
He turns sharply, smiles.  
'Ein, you're a guest, shouldn't be here.'  
'It's fine, Mr Gaelio.' And a beat. 'I—Mlle Issue is too intense.'

Gaelio starts laughing so loudly he startles even himself, misses one of the cups and leaves a puddle of coffee on the marble counter.  
'She's always been, she's too much.'

Ein nods, he wipes the counter with a cloth, and Gaelio finds that it's very easy for Ein to fit under him, since he reaches under his arm to wipe the spilled coffee.

'Ein,' he says, now softly, before Ein retreats. 'About my question, before—'  
'It's fine, Mr Gaelio, you can ask,' he turns towards the sink to rinse the cloth. 'Don't worry.' Then he turns again, to Gaelio, and he smiles.

Gaelio smiles too. Twisting on the back of his mind is the knowledge that Ein might be one of a kind, in a way. He's certainly never seen—

'Cafe crème?' Gaelio asks.  
'We should take the cups to the dining room.'  
'Oh, yes, of course.'

* * *

'I hope you didn't burn the coffee.'  
'I've never burnt coffee,' he sticks her tongue out at her.  
'The gâteau is very good, Carta.'  
'O-of course it is,' she looks away.  
'Thank you for dinner, Mlle Issue.'  
'Ein, that sounds like—'  
'I have to leave before the metro closes.'  
'That's not for another hour!'  
'If I leave now I'll be home by midnight, it's late.'  
'Share a taxi with me!'

Gaelio glances at Carta and McGillis, hiding behind their coffee cups, before once again placing all his attention on Ein. Ein makes a face.

'Your house is much closer than—'  
'A taxi'll take less than thirty minutes!'  
'—in a different direction—'  
'The least I can do, making you come all the way here—'  
'—and it's a waste—'  
'We'll drop you off first—'  
'—if the metro's running still—'  
'It's settled then!' Gaelio says, placing his hand on Ein's forearm. 'Carta, do you have the number for a company?'  
'Should be on the buffet at the entrance, with your silk atrocity.'  
'Perfect, perfect,' so he rises, dessert and coffee done with, to place the call.  
'Mr Gaelio—'  
'Gaelio is fine, Ein! I'll be right back.'

'You'll go too, I presume?' Carta asks McGillis while they all stand near the entrance for their good byes. She tugs on one of her long locks of hair.  
'Of course,' McGillis nods.  
'Good,' she arches her eyebrows. 'A toute, donc.'  
'Send my love to your nounou, Carta, tell her the folhados were—'  
'Yes, yes. The driver must be waiting for you, Gaelio.'  
'—I'll call tomorrow and ask her.'  
'Thank you, Mlle Issue.'  
'You may call me Carta,' she extends her hand towards him.  
'Good night, Mlle Carta,' Ein shakes it, then turns to McGillis. 'You too, Mr McGillis.'  
'Ein, Gaelio,' he looks at them both.  
'Carta lend the poor man an umbrella—'  
'Still waiting.'  
'Ciao!'

Gaelio watches Ein's back as they walk down Carta's staircase. The way he doesn't hold onto the railing. It almost seems as if he isn't even thinking about the steps, as if he knew them by heart.

* * *

Streetlights go by, kissing the window, blurred and smudged by tiny drops of summer rain racing down and sideways. Late night trips on his parents' Citroën CV2, her mother called it Citronelle, go by as well.

'You can lean on my shoulder, if you'd like.'

Ein turns to Mr Gaelio, sitting by his side, feels a little flushed—was he really this tired.

'Hm?'  
'To rest. I'll wake you when we arrive.'

He won't sleep, of course. The drive can't be more than fifteen minutes, and even if it weren't, even if the driver decided to keep going and going, out of Paris, towards the Mediterranean, all the way to Marseille, all the way down across the sea, and into Annaba, through Gouraya, then to Alger, and it took them days, Ein wouldn't fall asleep. He'd just keep hearing the thumping of his pulse in his ears, eyes closed, right side of his face propped, just so, on Gaelio's left shoulder.

Overwhelming, he thinks, lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling—how many people have died staring at their own ceiling, someone else's—overwhelming, but good. In such a way that he hugged Gaelio before getting out of the taxi, in the way that Gaelio's hand lingered around his arm, outstretched, before he said good night. And when he stood watching the car pull away, he felt like a watercolor in the rain.


	3. parmi nos mains de défaites

Ein waits for him by the fountain Saint Michel. His arms inside the pockets of his black pants, he stands up straight, mindless of the people around him, as if he couldn't see them, and they couldn't see him. On the phone yesterday Gaelio had just blurted out Saint Michel, by the fountain, because he used to wait for Carta there after school on the days she had riding lessons outside the city. He'd strike up casual conversations with those who, like him, waited for someone and Carta would arrive to mock him—"Again you've made yourself the center of attention."

'Ein!' he waves his hand from the other side of the boulevard and Ein perks up.  
They meet each other half way, Gaelio puts his arms around him after he kisses Ein's cheeks.  
'I'm sorry I'm late, I got distracted on the way here, the weather is so nice, the clothes that people are wearing so beautiful! Did you wait long?'  
'Not really, Mr Gaelio.'  
'Did you work today, Ein?'  
'A ha,' he nods, 'early in the morning.'  
'Been doing that long?' Gaelio places his hand on Ein's back to guide him through the street, by the river. He looks straight ahead, avoiding the people buying books or Trenet records from the bouquinistes, and keeps his hand close to, barely touching, Ein's back, so they won't be separated among the crowd.  
'A while. Seven years, or so.'  
'That long?'  
He feels the movements of Ein's back muscles when he nods.  
'Mr Crank—after he took me in, I started helping out.'  
'Ah,' Gaelio didn't ask about the man who answered the phone that first time. Here's his answer, he supposes. 'You live with him?'  
'He was a friend of my father's. They were in the world war together.'

Gaelio's father calls the Second World War 'the war'. His grandfather does the same with the first one. If he's not paying attention, Gaelio too, uses simply the war to refer to the second one. He wonders if Ein reserves 'the war' to name the Algerian war for independence. If 'the war' means something else outside the small confines of Europe.

'After my mother died he took me in.'  
'That's very kind of him.'  
'He's a very kind man.'  
Gaelio's left one step behind, absorbing perhaps the way Ein's face looked when he said that, the soft smile on his lips, his eyes straight ahead. When Ein turns with confusion on his face, Gaelio picks up his step and pats him on the back.  
'I'm glad to hear!'

'What are you studying?'

Ein's arms are leaning on the edge of the Pont de la Concorde and he's watching the ducks swimming on the Seine. Gaelio, standing next to him, has been watching his nape in silence for a couple of moments now, the way it dips just before his bone juts out. The short black hairs on his nape sway in the breeze and Gaelio wonders if it tickles. He almost thinks he wants to touch them.

'Ah! This is the first time you've asked me something!'  
'Is it?' Ein sounds shy, caught off guard.  
'I finished Political Science at Panthéon Sorbonne. Come next year I'll be doing a master's in Sociology.'  
Ein looks at him for a second before returning to the ducks.  
'I'm not really sure why,' Gaelio tells him. 'My family, I suppose. I chose Sociology because it seemed more interesting. Hm. A better way of employing what I learned. If maybe I can use my knowledge to—' the ducks swim out of view under the bridge and the breeze suddenly dies out. It smells like rain. Spring was so hot and now summer's so cold. Gaelio lets his sentence hang, focusing on a couple arguing not far from them, and the tiny tourists crossing the Pont Alexandre farther ahead.  
'To?' Ein says after who knows how long, still looking at the river.  
'Hm?'  
'You want to use your knowledge to do what?' Now he's looking at Gaelio so he's forced to face him too.  
'I'd like to help people. Change some things.'  
He feels watched by Ein, who bears no expression until he smiles, softly.  
'I'm sure you will, Mr Gaelio.'

They both let silence set in.

'I think it'll rain. Want to see a movie? L'Armée des ombres is playing at La Pagode, Cahiers du cinéma called it gaulliste and reactionary and they're always wrong and insufferable. Shall we? Have you ever been to La Pagode?'

Ein shakes his head, lets Gaelio lead the way.

'Oh, Ein... it's great, you'll love it. We can have coffee in the garden afterwards. It's beautiful. Usually they play Nouvelle vague films exclusively, very Cahiers du cinéma, but I saw the posters for this one the other—have you heard of it?'  
'Not really.'  
'It's about the Resistance during the war—we'll have to see just how gaulliste it really is, huh?'  
'Hm,' Ein says. 'We came here after the coup, my mother was scared the independence would never happen, the war would never end.'  
'The coup?'  
'Ah, sorry.'  
'No, tell me.'  
'There was a coup in Algers in 58, by—by the French,' Ein wrings his hands. Gaelio wonders if they're sweating like his—it really is hot. 'S'why De Gaulle got back in power, kind of.'  
'Oh, yes. I'm sorry, I thought you meant something else.' Gaelio dusts off his pants. He can't say he'd forgotten, he just—  
'It's okay,' Ein smiles at him.

* * *

La Pagode is beautiful, Ein thinks, wringing his hands on his lap. Before the movie, Gaelio showed him the garden and the overgrown plants hanging from the walls, the tinted glass. He could hear raindrops hitting against the glass and the birds finding cover in the trees. The screening room is old, there are ornaments on the ceiling—it's painted with art—and gold finishes to most everything. Gaelio could never look out of place somewhere like this. He was born to exist in this sort of place—like those pictures of French monarchs and nobles and buildings he had to look at in school—he belongs. He was greeted by people sitting in the garden—old classmates he informed Ein when they were in their seats, facing the screen—and it made sense, that he'd know people there. So Ein smiles, realizes he's lost track of what's going on in the movie watching Gaelio hold his chin in his hand.

Gaelio looks at him and smiles and they both return their focus to the screen.

'Did you like the movie?'

He wishes he could say he did, after all if only he'd paid attention he probably would've. He likes those stories—righteous vengeance and honor—but he can't really say he did so he nods noncommittally, waits for Gaelio to give his opinion. He'll listen intently.

Gaelio does, of course, even interrupts himself when they're making their way outside, into the garden again.

'It's still raining, huh. Doesn't seem like it'll let up for a while. Should we have coffee here or somewhere else? We can go to Les Mouettes down the road, too. Should still be open,' Gaelio checks his watch. 'I think they close at—'

Ein pats his pockets instinctively. He knows, though, he isn't carrying anymore money than what he already spent (metro tickets, movie tickets, a box of candy he hasn't given to Gaelio yet, another box for Carta.)

'Might not give us enough time though, around a half hour. But my house's around here, we'll get umbrellas then go to Carta's. We'll have our coffee there,' he smiles, places his hand on Ein's shoulder.

Framed by the green glow of the small garden, Gaelio looks like an underwater djinn, he'll grant Ein's wishes if only he'd ask. So Ein nods, and Gaelio smiles—widely—again. All he can do is follow.

Ein's never been inside Gaelio's room. Of course. He's only ever been in his home for work. He carries a weight on his back like he'll be spotted and shown to the kitchen. Mme Dupin greets them at the door and she raises an eyebrow at his sight—Gaelio hugs and kisses her—but says nothing and returns Ein's "Bonsoir" with a nod of her head.

The room isn't what he expects, but then again he didn't really expect anything other than spacious, and beautiful, with large windows and venetian blinds. In truth it's devoid of anything resembling someone's private space, empty walls and empty shelves and boxes upon boxes, which Ein supposes hold Gaelio's belongings.

'I'll be moving out to a place closer to the university,' Gaelio explains, busy looking for something in one of the few boxes that's still open. He takes things out and places them on the bed—a stuffed bear, a hair brush, a framed picture.  
'When?'  
'Some weeks. You'll come for the housewarming, no?' Gaelio looks at him. Again that smile. Is he always this open with others? With everyone?  
'I can help you move, too. If you want.'  
'Oh, Ein, that's not necessary. We hired some people,' he fishes one umbrella out of the box and hands it to Ein with another smile. 'But,' they're both holding the umbrella between them, 'you can help me set up. I'll need to arrange everything myself.'  
'Yes,' he says as Gaelio lets go of the umbrella, goes back to the box. 'Of course.'  
'Here it is!'

This umbrella's canopy is transparent, made of plastic, and has waves painted onto it. Ein's never seen one like it, the rain must look beautiful from under it.

'Do you want a scarf, Ein?'  
'Eh, no, thank you Mr Gaelio.'  
'I'll take one for you just in case.'  
'Shouldn't you phone Mlle Carta?'  
They're in the entrance hall, there's a phone on one of the buffets—Ein's seen it in before.  
'Nah, if we call and announce ourselves she'll forbid us from going. If we show up she has no choice. She opens the door before knowing who's behind it, a very dangerous habit, I've told her before.'

After Gaelio rings the loud buzzing bell, Mlle Carta opens the door.  
'That's a very dangerous habit,' Gaelio says, making his way inside to kiss her on both cheeks. 'I've told you before.'  
'I've told you not to show up out of the blue!'  
'Oh, are you with someone?' It's probably the tone of his voice which makes Mlle Carta fume.  
'How dare you!'  
'Mlle Carta,' Ein extends his hand toward her, closing the door behind him. 'I brought you this,' he says after she lets go of his hand, offering the box of candy he's been carrying. 'Thank you for the invitation.'  
'Thank yo—'  
'Good thinking Ein! This way you can't be mad at us—'  
'Don't interrupt me! Thank you, Ein.'  
'Those look good, Ein,' Gaelio peers over Mlle Carta's shoulder to look at the box, while she tries to shield it.  
'Oh, that's right. Here, Mr Gaelio.'  
Gaelio snatches his box and holds it close to his chest.  
'Thank you, Ein!'  
'Hey, why do you—why does he get one? He didn't invite you anywhere!'  
'Carta don't be jealous, how ugly,' Mlle Carta—Ein imagines she's frowning—follows Gaelio farther into the house, towards the living room. 'And that's not true, we went on a date today.'

Ein hangs back. He wrings his hands, then takes off his coat. Should he go get Gaelio's? The coat rack is by the door. He said date, he thinks, didn't he? Ein didn't really know, didn't think it was. He didn't really expect. He brushes his hands on his pants. He'd waited for Gaelio by the fountain for thirty minutes because he was so preoccupied with not being late he'd been too early. He'd wondered and wondered and then decided he couldn't really bring himself to think anymore. He'd let his mind busy itself with something else.

'No, you didn't! Don't lie!' Mlle Carta's furious.

Gaelio only laughs, Ein can hear his laughter coming closer as he approaches the living room. He watches Gaelio take off his coat and hang it on the back of the armchair they'd sat on together last month—it seems like less, a lot less—and continue laughing as he opens the box of candy. Of course. It was only a joke.

* * *

By the time he finds Ein out on the balcony, Carta's already started hinting at the people present that she'd rather they all went dancing to L'Aventure, on Victor Hugo, by saying she'd rather they all left and went to L'Aventure or something.

Ein is alone on the balcony. Gaelio'd come out of the kitchen, where he'd gotten another drink, to find Ein gone among the crowd. He'd lost count after Carta said they were thirty already. He didn't know how long he looked around for Ein but it was far too long. Ein looks like he looked on the bridge, his forearms on the balustrade, his shoulders jutting out above his neck. It isn't raining anymore and the smell of fresh grass and wet cement and plants floats in the air and Gaelio breathes it in the same he takes in the shape of Ein, the way his nape looks, the way it feels to the touch—his fingers barely there, soft and light enough that Ein maybe doesn't even notice. He leans his back against the balustrade, uses his arms for support.

'I was looking for you.'  
'I'm sorry, Mr Gaelio,' Ein says.  
'Don't be silly,' and after a pause. 'Carta wants to go to L'Aventure.'  
'What's that?' Ein looks at him.  
'It's a club. There's a party for Terence Stamp today.'  
Ein keeps looking at him.  
'He's an actor, he was in Théorème last year.'  
Ein laughs, softly, without any humor. Gaelio feels excited at the prospect of being able to tell when Ein forces a laugh. He also feels worry twisting a knot inside himself.  
'Are you okay, Ein?' he changes his position, stands next to Ein and places a hand on his shoulder.  
'Yes, Mr Gaelio,' Ein says. Now he's not looking at Gaelio. 'I think I'll pass. Today was fun. But I have to go home.'  
'I'll take yo—'  
'You should go dancing with your friends,' Ein steps away from the balustrade, forcing Gaelio to take his hand off his shoulder. He looks straight at him.

There's something off. Gaelio wishes he could pinpoint what it is. He thinks he knows Ein but he doesn't, not really. How much time have they even spent together? He's not as easy to read as Gaelio would like. But then nobody is, sometimes Carta isn't—people hide things no one can know. He wonders if he does too.

'Ein, you're my friend. They're your friends too.'  
Ein shakes his head, softly, looks at the sky overcast and dark.  
Gaelio feels he's at the brink of something. He wishes he knew how to push it.  
'I'm grateful—'  
'Ein, tell me—'  
'—for your kindness, Mr Gaelio. But—'  
'Just tell me—'  
Ein draws in a sigh.  
'I don't belong here. They're right—'  
'Who's they?' Gaelio feels his eyebrows knot, hears his voice like a whisper—this is like, like at school when—no, no it isn't.  
'They're right. I never have. I can't really say I've wished to, either, or that I've tried very hard. There are guys in my neighborhood,' at this Gaelio, who'd open his mouth to speak, closes it again, 'who've been killed, or thrown in jail, waging a war against the police—the French—because of all the others that've been killed before. And,' Ein's hands are hanging out of the balcony, he's playing with them. Gaelio leans in closer to the balcony, because Ein's voice's lower and lower with every word. 'I understand their feelings, I do, but I don't belong there either. Things have to change but I don't think that's the way. There'll be more of the same if that's the way. It's always been like this. I don't mind being told I'm not human anymore, I know I'm incomplete.'  
'Ein,' Gaelio also whispers. He hesitates, slightly, before placing his hand on Ein's shoulder. Then he rests his forehead on his hand, the crown of his head grazing against Ein's ear—Ein is warm, so warm.  
Gaelio feels like he's about to cry. He feels disgusted at himself—of course, he'd make this about himself, he wants to laugh too.  
'They're wrong,' he says but he doubts Ein is able to hear. He says into Ein's shoulder, and he can barely raise his voice above a prayer. 'They have no idea.'

Ein is stiff by his side, he's barely made any movements aside from breathing, but he jolts violently when the heavy glass doors to the balcony are opened. Gaelio stands up straight and looks at Ein before he looks at the person who's come outside.

Carta looks at both of them and Gaelio at least can read her this time. She knows she's interrupted them, but pretends otherwise. Her voice's a tad too high.

'We're going to Le Memphis instead. It's closer to Ein's place, too,' she doesn't look at either of them. 'Leaving in about ten minutes.'  
'Thank you, Mlle Carta, but I won't be going.'  
'Oh?' Carta directs the question at Gaelio, though.  
'Neither will I.'  
'Oh,' now she raises her eyebrows. 'Well, you're not welcome to stay here, if that's what you want. You can close up after we leave but you can't stay the night.'  
'Thank you, dearest.'  
She spins around with her held high and disappears back into the apartment.  
'I suppose now she'll have to believe us about the date, huh?' Gaelio winks at Ein. If anything, Carta's bad timing serves to deflate the tension. At least Gaelio's. As far as Ein's concerned, Gaelio notices his shoulders stiffen even more, his back straight and sharp like a metal rod.  
'I can go home on my own, Mr Gaelio. The bus runs all night. You don't need to—'  
'Ein,' Gaelio interrupts. 'You're the—' strongest person I know is too much. Somehow. Gaelio feels it'd be out of place, wouldn't really mean anything. That much is obvious. There's no one like Ein that Gaelio's ever met before. 'Do you want to have that coffee now? After they all leave?'  
Ein sighs, his posture relaxes.  
'I'd love to,' he says, the smile back on his lips.

* * *

Sometimes Ein doesn't know what to make of this, so he tries not to dwell on it too hard. In his mind, his mother's death was eclipsed not two months later by the massive massacre of Algerian immigrants—just like she was—at the hands of French police. Hard to reconcile the homeland of his father with this manner of cruelty and violence—having grown up believing in French ideals of solidarity, equality, freedom—and hard as well to reconcile for himself an identity as anything other than just Ein. French, Algerian, gaouri, bougnoule, pied-noir, métis; outside the confines of his own home he was never just Ein but all those things, so many things to digest, and none of them gave him—not one nor the other—the right to exist on this Earth. The massacre that befell those like his mother was not his, he didn't fully belong. The police who brutally murdered them were not of his kin, would never be. And all around him—newspapers, televisions, politicians, strangers on the street, schoolmates—people would promptly remind him he had no right to exist, not like them.

He tried to analyze what was about Gaelio that'd lead him to believe things would somehow be different at that party. That he'd stay away from it, not have to think about it. Because Gaelio's different, of course, like no one else. But why would those around him be.

He doesn't even need to engage them to know that their badly masked laughter is aimed at him. He's seen it before. And it's rare—unless they're physically aggressive—for people like this to call him names openly, in a situation like this. There's been enough of that—in 1958 when Alleg published his book, in Charonne in 1962, all over the city in 1967—for at least some eyebrows to be raised when this sort of thing happens openly at a party. It doesn't stop them from whispering, loudly enough for him to hear, that he doesn't belong, that he should go back home. That's another difference, too. They all have a home, or some idea of it. Where is his? Mr Crank's house will one day be too small for both of them, he's an adult now. He's grateful they wait until Gaelio's in the kitchen, fetching another drink, to say this. That won't last long, though, but for now they do. He's grateful none of it is directed at Gaelio. He's heard those expressions before. His father explained what they meant, and Ein struggled to understand why a phrase that included the word 'lover' would be uttered with such hatred. It didn't take him long to understand, though.

He holds the gaze of the man who'd whispered the loudest and then makes his way out onto the balcony. It isn't raining anymore.

When he hears Gaelio joining him he wishes without real intention that he won't have to explain anything. Even when Gaelio first asks Ein to explain what happened, he keeps on hoping he won't have to explain—maybe in a way he wishes Gaelio would understand without having to be told, but he can't be unfair. Gaelio's probably never been in a situation like that, and Ein is genuinely happy for that. So maybe it isn't that he wishes he didn't have to explain because Gaelio'd understand. Maybe it's just that he wishes the way Gaelio looks at him, the way he touches him lightly and delicately, the way he smiles at him, the way he hugs him, the way he lets him rest his head on his shoulder, won't change now. Now that Ein explains that he's only a sketch of a human being, that no one bothered to finish.


	4. le chant intact sur les traces enfouis

If perhaps he'd made a habit of telling her the going ons in his life, he'd be talking about Gaelio now. He'd mention that in two weeks he's agreed to help him unpack boxes in his new apartment on Saint-Médard, very close to the Grande Mosquée where he went to pray with his mother. She started saying she was a Catholic when they first arrived in Paris, under the advice of their neighbor, an elderly woman who wore wrinkles on her forehead forged on her homeland of Côte D'Ivoire. Ein repeats it too, "My mother was a Catholic," when he needs to, but their prayers were offered in the quiet, sunny mosques of Alger, their footsteps echoing across the floor. And so they'd ventured into the city more than once to reach that place. If perhaps he'd made a habit of opening up, she'd know this too. Instead he lets her do the talking, watches her devour one of the bastilas he made last night using his mother's cookbook.

'So I'll be in Marseille until the middle of October—What's in this one? Don't taste like chicken.'  
'Fish.'  
'Huh, you're getting better. Gotta babysit some rich Ambassador's son too.'  
Ein nods.

He liked watching the ships come into the bay from Marseille, as a child. Maybe Gaelio would call him dull but he never really gave the sea that saw him walk by back then any kind of sentimental feeling, and he doesn't feel much as if he misses it more or less than he does the entirety of his city. He never fully felt like he was part of that sea either. He tries not to think of it too hard but finds the attachment Europe has to the Mediterranean, the way they speak of it as if its waters only licked European shores, no beaches to the south, odd. They talk of it as if they belonged to it and it belonged to them.

'Should be a good thing for me, you know, Marseille. I lined up my vacation days for this, of course. These were good, you've really gotten better.'  
Julieta wipes her mouth with one of the large cloth napkins and makes a sound as if she's remembering something she pretended to have forgotten. Probably the reason she showed up unannounced—a rarity in their years of knowing each other.  
'I brought you your pay, from the other time,' she gets up from the old wooden table and wipes her hands on her striped pants.  
'Oh,' Ein watches her move towards the bag she left on the small couch. The other time was a long time ago, the beginning of summer. Autumn is almost here, he thinks. That was so long ago, he feels. So much has changed.  
'They refused to pay for that day, since I didn't show up, but they said they couldn't pay for your work, either, since you're not an employee. I had to fight them on it,' Julieta grabs an envelope from inside her bag. 'Finally, I asked Mr Rustal what could be done and he got his lawyers to help—well, budge them a notch.'  
'Oh,' Ein repeats.  
'I'm sorry it took so long.'  
'I'd almost forgotten.'  
She looks at him, severe as always.  
'That's no good, Dalton. You shouldn't do free work for anyone.'  
'I know,' Ein takes the envelope offered to him. 'It was a long time ago.'  
'Hm.'  
Ein watches the fine sugar dust cover her fingers and the corners of her mouth as she bites into one of the tchareks he laid on the table. There's a small Algerian boulangerie Ein delivers to—Mr Crank gave him the route for himself—and they make the best ones he's had so far in the city.  
'I haven't talked to you since then.'  
Julieta stops herself halfway through her bite, cheeks puffed, and watches Ein as if he's said something strange.

Maybe he has. It's not uncommon for them to let time go by without a word. Theirs is that kind of friendship, silent, from a distance.

'So I forgot,' he shrugs.  
She continues with the tcharek, and another one after that.  
Until he speaks again.  
'At the beginning of summer, I met this person,' by the twitch of her eye and lip he knows she wants to pause, again, but isn't doing so because she knows he'll stop if she does too. 'Remember that private waiting gig at Saint-Honoré?'  
She nods, wipes her mouth with her fingers, also dusted in sugar, makes it worse so she licks them distractedly. 'The Bauduin house.'  
'That's his house. His parents', at least,' he hears the words coming out of his mouth. So much has changed, he thinks again. 'He's a kind person.' A pause. 'We went to La Pagode together. Have you been?'  
She shakes her head.  
'It's nice. I guess, we could go, sometime.'  
'With him?'  
Ein blinks twice.  
'Yes. I suppose, you could come with me, and him.'  
She nods again. 'What's his name?'  
'Gaelio Bauduin.'  
She nods her recognition. She must've heard the name before, after all it was Mr Elion who'd put her, and through her Ein, with the catering agency that Mme Bauduin used for her events.  
'He's really tall,' she says, matter-of-factly.  
Ein wears a small smile for all reply.  
'And a complete _fils à papa_ ,' this too is matter-of-factly.  
'You don't know him.'  
'Do you like him?' Julieta finally caves in and takes the third tcharek.

Ein knots his eyebrows and stares at the patterns on the tablecloth. He knows what she means. And does he really? He's alright with the attention. That's enough, honestly. Beyond it there's an great expanse stretching out like the road to Constantine—one he'd rather not touch upon with anyone, not even himself. The picture isn't complete but he's used to that, by now. It's not like him to ask for more, to wish for more.

'Yeah,' he says softly.  
'Hm, then let's see if La Pagode really is that interesting,' Julieta licks her fingers again.  
'Yeah,' Ein says again. 'Yeah.'

* * *

'What do you think, Minouchette?'  
The cat lies on her back on the spot of the parquet flooring that's been warmed by the patch of sun coming in from the balcony.  
'It's got a nice view, at least,' Carta supplies in Minouchette's behalf.  
'I didn't ask you.'  
Carta slides her gloved fingers across the glass on the window door then inspects her index finger, pursing her lips.  
'Are you all set for the move?'  
'Mmhmm,' Gaelio hums. 'Ein's coming over next week to help me unpack.'  
'Ugh, what's with that creepy smile?' Carta makes a face.  
'I'm excited!'  
'You're an infant,' she laughs—it's beautiful, Gaelio thinks, it bubbles up from the inside. It's rare but always sincere.  
'You are!' Gaelio turns sharply to face her, tearing himself away from the view visible beyond the balcony. 'Ah, Carta. There's something—'  
'No, I won't tell you,' she too turns sharply, away from him, crossing her arms. 'Ask someone else. McGillis probably knows.'  
'You don't even know what I was going to say!'  
'You have that expression on your face that says you're gonna ask something. You're so transparent.'  
'I am?'  
She turns to face him. 'Hopeless.'  
Gaelio sulks.  
'Alright, what is it?' she looks around for a place to sit on, but there's nothing in the apartment except for a couple of boxes Gaelio brought by himself. She leans against the wall.  
'Remember that night you went to Le Memphis,' she nods at this, 'and Ein and I stayed behind?'  
'If this is about something you did to my apart—'  
'Just let me finish!'  
'Fine!'  
'I was wondering, because of what Ein said. Well, do people ever say things to you?'  
'Things? Can you be more specific?'  
'Ein said others tell him stuff like he's not human, I think. Because he's not from around here.'  
Carta stops leaning against the wall, she uncrosses her arms.  
'And,' Gaelio continues, 'that he doesn't belong here, that he should go back.'  
'I see,' Carta lowers her head, nodding. 'My case is different, Gaelio. You know this. I'm sad to hear that happens to Ein, but you can't really say you're surprised.'  
Gaelio nods. 'I suppose not. It's just—' different when it's someone you care about and not one of the faceless immigrants you've thought before should go back to their countries? Again, he's made it about himself. How disgusting. 'I've been like that, too, haven't I?'  
Carta shakes her head. 'But he knows you care for him, I mean, you've told him. You're dating.'  
Maybe it's the way he fiddles with his thumb, or the way he then takes it into his mouth to nibble softly at its side, but Carta gives him that look.  
'You haven't told him.'  
'Of course I have!' Gaelio thinks back on the words he's said throughout the summer, to Ein, about Ein. And then the ones he didn't, in Carta's balcony, that night. Those are the ones he shouldn't hide.  
'You poor hopeless fool. He probably thinks you're some rich brat, some fils à papa stringing him along to distract himself for the summer, conducting a twisted sociological experiment on the miserable immigrant working class boy.'  
'Ein wouldn't think that!'  
'I would! And you would too! In his place.'  
Maybe they wouldn't, he thinks, circling frantically around the room, but he knows what it's like to feel tricked, like he's being fed silver-tongued lies, like someone is weaving a tale that keeps him apart from the real fabric of truth and he's powerless to stop them. He finds it hard to focus his gaze—fortunately or not there aren't many things in the apartment.  
'Ah, ah,' he picks Minouchette up off the floor and holds her close, too close. She escapes his grasp with a loud meow of disagreement. 'What should I do, Carta?'  
'Tell him,' Carta's back to leaning on the wall, looking at Minouchette's form disappearing into the bedroom with disinterest.  
'Tell—you mean now?'  
'I don't care when.'

Gaelio checks the time on his watch. Now's a good a time as any, really. He grabs his jacket from atop one of the boxes and makes his way to the door, starts turning the key—he'd left it in the lock—when he remembers.

'Carta, you know you're—'  
'Are you really going now?' Carta asks him once he's back again in the empty living room. She's wearing that expression of confusion that makes her look like an angry cat. 'You're leaving me here?'  
'I don't want Minouchette to be alone.'  
'You're insufferable!'  
'Take her to your apartment.'  
'Just go.'  
Gaelio kisses her on the cheeks.  
'You're pretty good at giving this kind of advice, considering... you know.'  
'Considering what!' she asks loudly.  
'I'm grateful for you, for your friendship,' he tells her for all answer, his hands on both her shoulders.  
The soft expression of surprise, maybe shock, on her face mimics his own at the words. He chuckles at himself. Does he seem like that different of a man? How peculiar. She doesn't say anything so he walks away with a hurried step after squeezing her shoulders.  
'Wish me luck, Carta!' he calls out to her when he's at the door. 'Take care of Minouchette!'

He closes the door and can't hear her from the other side but pictures her having followed Minouchette into the room and pouting, wishing Ein good luck instead of him.

* * *

Gaelio imagines a piano diminuendo following the speed and rhythm with which he walks downstairs and music blaring out from the orchestra when he feels himself pour onto the street, like his movements are liquid, fluid. The music in his head follows his light steps leading him somewhere, they score this momentous time in his life as he's imagined happening before. It all fits together in the same way things fall apart, he's always landed on his feet. He takes the métro at Censier – Daubenton, hums the melody in his head while he fixes his hair watching his reflection on the scratched, dusty windows of the train. It's not like he has a plan, but that's nothing new. He'll change to line 4 and get off at Barbès – Rochechouart and there he'll slide a coin inside the pay phone and dial Ein's number that he's committed to memory. And Ein will answer, and then he'll speak.

The phone rings twice before Mr Crank picks it up, he clears his throat loudly before answering, Ein can hear him from the living room, with the TV on at the lowest possible volume. Then he hears Mr Crank's steps coming closer towards him.  
'S'for you. Bauduin, said he was.'

He makes no comments, though, on the name, though he probably can recognize it, and Ein is alone in the kitchen when he takes the call, holds the receiver in both of his hands. He wonders what's brought this one call on, staring at the spot on the tablecloth covering the kitchen table, the same spot he stared at when Julieta asked about him.

'Gaelio?'  
'Ein! I'm so happy to find you home! I wasn't sure you'd be home but I thought I'd try and see anyway. I'm—how are you, Ein?'  
'I'm fine. How are you?'  
'I'm great! I'm great! I went to drop off some boxes at my apartment today, with Minouchette. Just a couple, the weather was nice.'  
'You could've asked me for help.'  
'Oh no, it was fine, I did it as an excuse to bring Minouchette over, you'll still help me unpack, right?'  
'Of course.'  
'Thank you, Ein! And your day? How was your day?'  
'I had work in the morning, and a two hour shift at—a brasserie.'  
'Are you tired? I need to talk to you, Ein. I need to—I don't want to say this on the phone.'  
'Uh—'  
'I'm at the pay phone at the station!'  
'The station?'  
'Barbès – Rochechouart! Can you come down? I need to tell you something.'  
'Now?'  
'Yes, Ein, I'm here now, on the phone here. Can you?'  
'Sure,' Ein leaves no pause. 'Please wait. I'll be there soon.'  
'Thank you, Ein!'

Gaelio drums his fingers against the top of the pay phone before hanging up. He half-heartedly rehearses the conversation in his head, the things he'll say, what he thinks or is sure Ein will say in return. The inflection of his voice at the right word, an art form all by itself. He looks around the place, watches people go inside Tati. He's never been inside but he knows it's one of the few department stores in the area—the thought of a person coming from Africa, the same as Ein, to open up his own business here, a department store with the lowest of prices, warms his heart in a strange way, like he'd want to pray for the keeping of that soul; he feels tenderness directed at the bravery. It takes him a couple minutes to realize maybe what he feels is just condescension. To think a Tunisian would be capable of such prowess, to come to Paris and set up a successful business, against all odds. What right does he have to think that way? He grits his teeth, changes focus. Maybe he and Ein can shop there, together, surely he'll find some cute outfits, at the lowest prices, something soft and warm for the coming winter, for both of them.

When he catches sight of Ein running down the street in his direction, his fists tightly closed, the piano notes follow him too, in crescendo, and Gaelio realizes he's the most nervous he's been in his life. That Ein's opinion of him meant more to him than the thoughts of anyone else had ever meant before.

Ein stops himself some ways away from where Gaelio stands, next to the phone, looking right at him. He takes it all in: the people going under the bridge, into the station, the passerbys looking at Gaelio—he does stand out, with his clothes, and his posture, and his stature—and the lack of a smile on Gaelio's face, like he's focused on something that'll change the pace they've kept for the summer.

Ein's prided himself in discarding the thoughts others place upon him, the labels, and names, and places where they say he should belong, the ones others have decided for him. He's prided himself in the confidence that he is Ein, and he is Ein even on the fringes, in the margins, outside, and nowhere, no matter what they want to believe about him. But he can see cracks on the sides of his confidence that fit Gaelio's hands. He can see that maybe it'd take just one word from someone Gaelio trusts—really trusts—for Ein not to be Ein to him anymore. For him to be just another face in a sea of blurry factions without any particular features. Unrecognizable amidst the countless others who share the ordinary fates of those unlike Gaelio. The only other time this kind of panic twisted the muscles around his stomach he was a child and the idea of war, which had been discussed after a meal by his mother and her friends and his father and his friends over the kitchen table, had become more than an idea, had become the architecture of the building trembling at night, glass shattering, the sound of people screaming muffled by shots of bombs and gunfire, families torn apart, and his mother had first spoken of leaving the place for good because the war would go on forever.

There's no hesitation in Ein's steps as he closes the distance between them, nor when he stands in front of Gaelio, says "Hello" with even breaths, head slightly tilted upwards.

'Thank you for coming so fast, Ein. I'm so glad you were home, I wasn't sure I'd find you—I didn't have your address so I thought calling from here was the best option. I'd never really—Thank you for coming.'  
'It's alright, Gaelio. What did you need to tell me? Are you alright?'  
'Yes! I'm great. I just—I needed to talk to you, Carta said I should do it now since I hadn't done it before, I didn't really realize I had to, but I think I've started noticing that I didn't really realize a lot of things that maybe I do now. That's why I came here, you know?'  
Ein puts his hand on Gaelio's forearm.  
'Gaelio?' All things come to an end, he thinks. Nothing lasts forever. When he goes to La Pagode with Julieta he'll enjoy it all the same.'Ein,' he says it softly, cupping Ein's cheek and stroking it with his thumb. 'Ein, if I haven't made it clear, that's what I wanted to say—I couldn't just hope it was clear to you when I never said it, but I hoped you'd know. That I'm—That this isn't just—That I'm all in.'  
'All in?'  
'It's serious. It's—not like anything else. You aren't.'  
'Oh,' it might be unconscious but Ein leans into Gaelio's touch, he strengthens the hold on his forearm. Not what he expected at all. It was enough, whatever which came before, but this is better, he knows, he lets himself revel in the feeling, the hollow ache in his chest filling up with warmth. 'I understand.'

He doesn't say anything else, so Gaelio doesn't either. Anxiety, of course, sets in like a stone making ripples on the smooth surface of a lake: Gaelio's hand trembles, his hold hesitates, and the nonchalant control he has over his lower lips gives way to a quiver, barely noticeable to anyone but himself.

'Ein,' he says, hesitating between retreating his hand altogether from its contact with Ein's warm skin in the cool air, 'did I say something wrong? I'm sorry, I assumed—presumed, it was okay, or something you wanted—I shouldn't have—'

His hands tremble against Ein's face, he can feel them more than see them, so Ein puts his own hand on Gaelio's. He'd never expected Gaelio, of all people, to appear so vulnerable, and of course, to be the cause of it, but he suspects he's not the only one who finds certain things changed after their meeting. Words aren't his forte. He and Mr Crank can spend days or weeks without a word passing between them. Gaelio does a beautiful job of making words unnecessary for others, but sometimes he too must need to hear that he is—that he is like no one else that exists in this world. Even if he knows—he should at least—Ein has to speak, too.

'Gaelio, if not for you—I'm grateful, for you. Because of you my life—I'm lucky, to have you in my life.'  
Gaelio's hold no longer hesitates.  
'I am!' he says and Ein stands on his tip toes. Gaelio bends his knees so their heights can match more closely. This time the kiss is no different, but Gaelio pretends it is—there's music in the air. Maybe Ein can pretend it's different too, he clings to Gaelio's shirt with fervor, almost, and his breath is so warm against Gaelio's lips, tongue, teeth. With his fingers he feels the soft strands of hair on Ein's nape, and the way his neck dips into his back, and he moves his other hand to the small of Ein's back.

* * *

'Ein, just leave it...'  
'Gaelio we should unpack all the boxes, it's better to get it all done in one go.'  
'Ein just come lie on the sofa with me,' Gaelio whines. He reaches over to the turntable, on the floor next to the sofa where he lies, places the needle on the record. 'There, now Dutronc is playing... Maybe we can dance, after we rest.'

Ein busies himself unpacking Gaelio's belongings, placing them where he thinks they might go. Minouchette observes him with martial dilligence, maybe even like a prey, and he feels a little nervous at the fact, not that he minds. He just hasn't gotten along very well with cats, so far.

'I'll place your clothes on the commode in your room—'  
'Just leave it,' Gaelio groans, makes no attempt to get off his position on the couch, watches Ein go into the bedroom, carrying Gaelio's neatly folded clothes. 'S'your room too,' he says, barely above a whisper. So he's startled when Ein's form emerges from the door to the bedroom in a flash.  
'M-my...?'  
 _Il est cinq heures, Paris s'éveille_ starts playing.  
'This song makes me think of you.'  
The change in topic helps Ein return to the task at hand, emptying boxes, making the apartment look like someone lives in it.  
'I told you to just leave it,' he helps Minouchette settle on his chest, both of them lying horizontally on the large sofa. 'I was thinking, you know, Crank can pick you up here, for your route. Or we can get a car! You have your own routes too. Do you do this part of town? Maybe you can get new routes here? Oh! Could I go with you, one of these days? I can just skip class, that'd be fine. And we'd play this song, and I'd sing it for you while I help you unload the sacks, what do you say? I'd love that, maybe I can go more than once, it can be a weekly thing...'

Ein doesn't reply, from the way he keeps placing objects here and there, the untrained eye could say he's not paying attention, that Gaelio's one sided conversation washes over him without effect, but he doesn't miss a single word, and Gaelio knows, he can see that soft smile on Ein's face as he sets the picture frames in the way he likes it, as he places everything where he wants it to be. Gaelio knows Ein is listening. This is their home now.


End file.
